


.... and war is for fools

by Anuna



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, introspective, smut with substance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-14
Packaged: 2017-11-16 07:09:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This girl – this woman – she's so strong and powerful and so fiercely determined to live, and somehow he is a part of that. Somehow, she needs him to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	.... and war is for fools

**Author's Note:**

> Written for fabulous bob5fic and workerbee73. Companion piece to [In love and war](http://archiveofourown.org/works/492375), and I think it makes more sense when you read them both. :)

*

Clint Barton doesn't believe in debts. 

He believes in taking opportunities and giving chances; he believes in fairness even in his line of work. 

*

He knows that she will come seek him out, sooner or later – and she does, but not for the reason he expects her to. 

She looks like a strained branch in the wind, standing in front of his door. Her face is dark and closed and her shoulders are tense, and she covers it up with a look of irritation. It doesn't fool him though, everything about her just screams that things are not okay. At this point he knows her well enough to correctly guess how she's going to attack him while they're sparring. It takes careful observation, and that's precisely what he's good at. 

He tells her he isn't a good company and it's the truth. He isn't. 

She puts the groceries on the counter and alarms go off in his brain. He is slow, though, because that's what sadness and grief do to you. They anchor you to the ground and force you to reshape your view of life. It's something like dogs licking their wounds in the solitude, and he would like to have it back, please. Just a couple of days more. He is injured and off active duty and he can be wherever he damn pleases. 

Except, Natasha accuses him of hiding, and it's telling. It's somehow too straightforward, too open and he looks at her when she approaches the foot of his bed, her body tense, like she is filled with intent. This is how she looks when they spar and she can't take him down. It takes a lot to throw her off, even more to make her feel frustrated, but he's done it before. He watches carefully because she's his responsibility and soon will be his partner and he wants to find out everything he can about her. She rarely just reveals something, but when it happens he makes sure he sees it and finds out what it means, and this? This has a meaning. 

Something flashes across her face. He's alert but quiet, and he still wants his solitude back, but at this point he's ready to give it up and get to the bottom of this. Whatever this is.

And then she's next to him and kissing him – he doesn't even blink as his brain halts at the non sequitur of the entire situation. He doesn't push her away, though – impulsive, sudden movements around Natasha are about as advisable as they are around a wild animal. Everything Natasha does has a reason, and Clint knows why it's important that he understands her reasons. Important for him, important for her. She tugs at his lips and warmth floods him, he isn't made of stone, but he doesn't touch her. She sits up, looking at him, and slender, white fingers start to unbutton her shirt. Breasts come into view, cupped with lace, and it's unfair. He wouldn't be a living breathing man if this didn't make him react. But then their eyes lock and suddenly it's clear, and  _oh God_. 

She isn't quick enough to hide that look from him; in fact he looks at her and she looks back and it's so raw and open, he stops breathing for a second. He realizes  _why_  she is here. 

She  _needs_  him. It's plain as a day. He knows this, because he knows her, even though she will never say it or admit she is scared. He knows what everyone else sees when they look at her, this dangerous woman who is too young to feel this old. He knows what it's like to feel utterly alone inside your own skull. 

Can he explain to her that grief and pain and sorrow are normal and that he will come back (to her) unharmed? 

She is smart. She wants to survive. Clint knows his part of this equation. He is one of two equal halves, and it doesn't bother him. If she asks then he will give, because he's a strategist, and she needs to know he will survive. That's why he goes along.

He reaches for her, she straddles him, like they're lovers who've done this thousand times. She moves and he lets her move, he lets her undress him from his sweatpants and boxers and he watches her as she slides down his body. 

Her mouth is on him even before he has time to draw another breath. 

He gasps. Isn't this how they fight? No warnings. Strike and avoid and see how much the other can take, it's been like this between them ever since he lowered his bow and decided the world wouldn't be any less fucked up if he sent an arrow through her throat. But with her alive, and getting that chance she was fighting for even as he watched from the rooftop? 

He knows why she tests his limits. Trust can be dangerous, it can take more things from you than just your life, and for Natasha? There are things infinitely more dark than dying. He feels her mouth on him and his body responds, a powerless reflex and he gives in, lifts the thick mass of red hair to see her face, to see how she grins when she eases him out of his mouth and pulls him back inside. 

It's hypnotizing, agonizing, so fucking amazing and all his consciousness is reduced to feeling. His hips jerk upwards, it's been ages since someone did this to him (since he allowed it), and his control is falling apart as her tongue glides along his length. He holds onto her and moans, and then he sees her hand moving between her legs. 

He wants to give her more; even more than she is asking for. 

“Tash,” he says, and his voice is different, rough from and deep and she stops moving. “Come here.” 

She does, and drops the blouse she's wearing. His hands are steady but he gives her enough time and space to pull back if she wants to. She comes to him instead, inevitability and determination and dark, needy things clouding her eyes. 

Every spy has a rule. Don't kiss, don't talk about certain things, don't allow something, something that's personal and just has to remain yours. He has this gut feeling when it comes to Natasha, he knows what her past was like, he knows that her body often wasn't her own. And that's why he looks, every flex of her muscles and every shadow in her eyes, but all he sees is  _need_  and  _want_  and  _yes_ , echoing off her face like a desperate distress call. When he kisses her, eyes and mouth open, the response is immediate, forceful and  _hers_. 

This is her, and God, that makes it so amazing and fucking powerful. This girl – this woman – she's so strong and powerful and so fiercely determined to live, and somehow he is a part of that. Somehow, she needs him to be. And he will, he will kiss her like there's no tomorrow, let her know that he is here, that he has her back. She opens her mouth to him, lets him drag his mouth up along her throat, breathes his name while he's doing it. She lets him unfasten her bra, remove it from her body and reveal her with his hands, and he knows he isn't the only one giving, or giving up things. She is gorgeous, soft, warm under his palms, she's alive because she chose to be, because she chooses it again and again. She chooses him right now, in this moment. His mouth closes around her breast and all of her body reacts. He feels it in his arms, along his body, the way she presses herself against him, the way her breathing changes. He hears her moans as he sucks her and feels her heart beating wild and strong under his palm because of him. 

She tugs on his shirt and he lifts his arms, lets her undress him, touch him, have him. He touches her, does all things he can think of, and she's so pliant and responsive to every single thing he does and he feels a little drunk. There's something about bringing other person this kind of pleasure, something incredibly honest, almost like completely erasing that line which divides two people. It feels like they're both clawing at that, straining to connect, become one. She lets him undress her completely, see her naked, touch her, push his fingers inside of her. He gives and she takes and demands  _more, more, now_. They're both naked, and he notices how she looks at him, all of him, and it makes his chest so full and tight with things he can't even name. Then she lets him push her onto the bed, flat on her back and she spreads her legs for him. 

He tastes her and the way she calls for him almost breaks his mind in pieces. He claims her, with his mouth and his hands and she lets him, writhing under him, holding his hair and commanding his movements, rising her hips to meet his mouth. He doesn't want this to end yet, so he stops, places wet kisses on her hipbone and over her navel, kisses her left breast as her lifts her knee to open her to him. 

And then he's inside, wetness and scorching heat gripping him tightly and  _God_. It's too much. Too much. He breathes, because that's the only thing he can do when she tilts her hips and they both moan. He pulls out, just a little, and pushes himself back into her, give and take the push and pull of their connection; everything shattering between them. His name falls from her mouth in a broken sob and it sounds so beautiful like this. He wants to hear it again and again and again, so he moves, pushes, fucks her and she lets him. He kisses her and moves and his arms start to shake; his right arm is still in bad shape and he won't be able to keep this up for long. His forehead drops to her shoulder and he feels her palms, stroking tenderly over his shoulder, ruffling his hair, urging him to look up. 

“Turn over,” she says against his kiss and he nods. Then she's above him, and his hands hold her hips as she rides him into oblivion. 

He's close, really close, but he wants to be a good partner, a good lover (no matter how shortly he might play this part), so he starts touching her between her legs, stroking steady circles with his thumb. He can tell she is nearing that point herself, from the way her mouth opens, the way her breathing changes, the sounds she makes. It breaks her rhythm, she grinds against him forcefully, like she wants to stop it, make it about him, and he won't have that. They're equals, they should be, he won't take and not give in return, he won't let her take from him, and maybe it's selfish, but he wants to see it. He wants to see her come, just as blindly as he will, so he pulls her down against him, to kiss her and touch her. 

She opens her mouth and he opens his beneath her, giving all he has while his hands hold her in place. He moves carefully, slowly, and she starts shaking; she grips his shoulders and tries to fight it just for a moment. He moves his hands to hold her face between his palms, to look at her and let her know that it's okay, that this is him, she is safe and she can let go. That he wants this for her just as he wants it for himself. She shuts her eyes after a moment and kisses him, wet and uncoordinated and sloppy and when he manages to get his hand between them again and starts touching her she gasps against his mouth and shatters with his name on her lips. 

It's all that takes, so he lets go as he holds onto her.

*

 

Clint Barton doesn't believe in debts. 

He believes in giving chances; he believes in reciprocity. He believes that reaching out is better than staying alone. 

And he believes in Natasha.


End file.
